


The Cold of the Night

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Grief, sibling relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-13
Updated: 2014-09-13
Packaged: 2018-02-17 07:05:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2300765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the Helcaraxë, Argon, Aredhel and Fingon want to help Turgon through the pain of Elenwë's death, but they do not know how.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cold of the Night

"I don’t know what to do" said Irissë, wringing her hands in their thick mittens clumsily. She peered out of the smallest crack in the tent flap, screwing up her face as the icy wind bit at her cheeks. "He talks less every day… he’s isolating himself. It’s… I’m worried about him."

"Turno will be fine" protested Arakáno. He wanted nothing more than to believe it, but his sister’s words rang true in his head, making him sick with worry for his brother. He frowned, gesturing at the tent flap. "Close that, Irissë" he snapped. "Turno will be fine" he repeated, "Lalwendë is helping him to put Itarillë to bed, and Atar will check in on him later, and Findaráto is looking out for him too…" he faltered. "As soon as we get…  _across_ , then he will be better. The new lands will help him heal.”

 _If we get across._  The three of them avoided each others’ eyes in the cramped space of the tent as the words filled the space between them, as surely as the hot mist of their breath.

It was Irissë who was first to break the oppressive silence. “I tried to talk to him again today, and it was easier than yesterday, but… it’s still hard. He blames himself, of course.” She frowned. “I think he blames you too, Finno. For persuading Atar.” 

Findekáno sighed, heavily, and when he spoke his voice was full of pain. “I know. I tried to talk to him earlier, and he listened, but the look in his eyes when he saw me…” he shook his head.

Arakáno knew what he meant, of course. Since Elenwë’s death, Turukáno’s eyes had become raw as open wounds, his voice alternately flat and uninflected and tearing at the edges, breaking. Arakáno could barely recognise the brother he had known, and it frightened him more than he could say.

"We should sleep" said Findekáno heavily, interrupting his thoughts. "We all need the rest."

"Yes" said Irissë. "I will try to talk to him again tomorrow."

If at the beginning of the march the they had slept separately, they had quickly abandoned privacy in favour of warmth. The three of them curled up together like kittens, but all Arakáno could think of, held close between Findekáno and Irissë, was his other brother, in his own tent with Itarillë. Turukáno, holding his daughter in his arms in the tent that, only a few days ago, had also housed Elenwë. The extra space in which the wind could whistle through the tent flap, Turukáno giving all his extra furs to Itarillë, clinging to her as if never to let her go.

He thought of their father; he slept so little, talking with Lalwendë late into the nights, or patrolling the camp, wrapped in heavy furs; a wakeful shadow as the lights in the sky flickered and danced overhead, the green turning his face to a sickly pallor. Wrath burned in him, Arakáno knew; it was what kept him going, but it turned his face to stone, all hard angles.

Everyone looked different in the cold, strange half-light, reflected off the ice. Everyone looked a little more gaunt and pale by the day, as if pain and the very Ice itself were wearing them away to nothing. Strangers from this frozen ghost-land, slowly replacing the family and friends that he had known.

And those were the ones that remained; too many slipped away each night, too many wandered away into the cold emptiness under the stars and the pallid curtains of light, their minds splintering under the weight of despair and the closeness of that terrible  _white_ , the frozen oblivion that had no end.

Arakáno shuddered, despite his own furs and the warm arms of his brother and sister. He knew they were awake too; in here he could hear them both breathing, and it was not the even rhythms of sleep.

"Finno? Irissë?" He said into the silence, his heart aching. "Are we… are we all going to die?"

Findekáno sat up sharply. “No” he said fiercely, and he sounded as though he was gritting his teeth. “Don’t say that, Arakáno.”

Irissë held him closer. “No” she said, and her voice was softer than Findekáno’s had been. “We will… we will cross to the outer lands. This will end, and… and Turno will stop hurting, in time. We will help him. And we will…” her teeth were chattering, and Findekáno drew them both a little closer into his arms before she continued “…and we will be… we will be free. And Atar will find Fëanáro, and we will have  _homes_  again, and… and…” she tailed off, leaving behind a silence even worse than the one that had come before

"We need to sleep" said Findekáno again at last.

Arakáno pressed his eyes closed, his face buried in the furs that wrapped them. It was almost warm, with the three of them close together, and it was only now that he let himself cry. At any other time, the tears would have frozen solid while still on his lashes, and besides, he thought, during the days he must be strong for Turukáno, for he knew that the pain was nothing compared to what his brother bore. And so, in the night, while Findekáno and Irissë pretended to sleep on either side of him, Arakáno pressed his face into the fur and sobbed in complete silence. 


End file.
